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“I’m swearin’ off drug testin’ for life!”
Rich words coming from a fucking idiot.
Maybe he was still too soft, to get tangled up in the same thing twice. Or maybe he was just passionate about progressing the medical field for the sake of children all over the world. Do it for them!
Or something.
Whatever the case, Majima’s wallet was a bit fuller and his mind was a bit fuzzier, uncomfortably soft around the edges. An hour had passed, so the researchers—if they were qualified to be called that—let him go with only a bottle of water and a phone number haphazardly scrawled onto a scrap of napkin. To ‘call if he experienced any unsavory side effects’.
The napkin quietly made itself into lint in the deep crease of Majima’s jacket pocket, frayed corners hazy as Majima’s state of mind. It was easy enough to chalk feeling under the weather up to poor sleep and the beginning of the torturous first round of allergy season, instead of the more obvious and more logical ‘ingestion of strange, under-tested medicines’. But hey, wit and sexiness had little to do with logic, and Majima had only ever claimed to be blessed with the first two.
He ignored the head blur in favor of whacking some balls around. At least until ‘head blur’ morphed into what ended up being misconstrued as ‘birth of a bitching headache’. Two missed swings turned into twenty, which turned into the perfect excuse to excuse himself from the batting center for the day lest his pride suffer any more of a battering.
Admitting (temporary) defeat to his corporeal form, Majima trudged his way to the first place that an empty gut and a nose on the hunt would take him, a fast food joint. Grease in his belly was the only way to prime a rematch against bodily function.
The streets were as crowded as usual, packed from storefront to trash-lined curb, and while Majima’s presence generally demanded a breadth of space between himself and everyone else—passive intimidation of passersby—the lack of… pep in his step that evening caused the pack to pay him no particular mind.
The bustle of the city had never bothered him until this moment, and the palpable change in amount of personal space made him quite claustrophobic. Ill, even. He felt an old anxiety creep up, and became near-desperate to escape the endless stream of businessmen and school girls, hosts and hostesses, unknown bodies flitting from one place to another. To eat and quickly disappear into the shadows of the city to lick his wounds and reassess himself.
Whenever he would catch his reflection in anything clear enough to project it, it came out smudged—Dirty-puddle distorted even in the cleanest showcase windows. He made the mistake of brushing his arm against a window to avoid bumping into a woman chatting on the phone, and the smooth glass felt more like an unwanted caress than it should’ve.
It was enough to turn his empty stomach. Enough to solidify the decision to get take-out rather than dine in.
Finally, he had reached a deep-fried sanctuary.
Door chime. Burger time.
Swinging the door open allowed fry-scent to immediately hit his nose, followed closely by warm bread and juicy meat. His mouth watered, almost violently, and he couldn’t remember a time that his stomach had felt emptier. Ever. All past experiences of his stomach flirting with his back paled in comparison to the overwhelming ache in his belly at this moment.
He gulped, approaching the counter with his signature slouch, and hoped the practiced nonchalance adequately masked his sudden hunger.
“Welcome to Smile Burger… Oh! It's good to see you again. What can I get for you?” the cashier chirped. There was a pause where his name might’ve gone had the girl known it, but regardless, Majima welcomed the familiarity, and greeted her with what he imagined to be a congenial lift of his brows and the corner of his lips.
The guarantee of nourishment sapped most of the built-up tension from his shoulders, wringing the stress of travel out of his body and depositing shriveled remains at the bottom of an exhausted husk. Maybe all that being hungry and shit had really worn him down, but more alarming than the desire to pass out in front of the counter was the frequency and severity of these shifts in his condition.
From relatively normal, to maybe-hungry, and then into ravenous. All with this underlaid haziness that made Majima’s perception of time wildly distorted. Even the clinical trial mere hours ago felt like it could’ve happened some time last month, and that made it difficult to pinpoint the shady pills he had popped as the root cause of his dilemma.
The crackle of the deep fryers lifted him, burnt, from the depths of his foggy memory, at least long enough to place his order. While normally he was able to make eye contact with the girl behind the register, Majima kept imagining glimpses of someone he didn’t recognize in the reflection of her glasses, and tilted his head towards the counter to avoid the unsettling gaze.
“Classic combo's fine,” he tried, but the syllables stuck to his tongue, dribbled over his chin and lingered, and he's not even sure if the message got across. The confusion painted across the girl's features confirmed his suspicion, so he gave it a second go, simply pointing at the #1 combo on the menu sheet attached to the counter.
Stupid.
"Classic combo, right! Sorry, sir, it's been a little difficult for me to hear today." Had he been in a more jovial mood, the girl might have pulled laughter from Majima for her smooth cover, but all he could manage was a dull nod and a handwave when prompted about his choice of side and beverage.
The time before he was allowed to leave with his food stretched taffy-slow. He was sweaty one moment, freezing the next. It felt like he was experiencing the full brunt of the four seasons in the lazy queue beside the counter, like he’d stood there so long he’d forgotten who he was supposed to be by the time his number was called. Majima’s joints creaked when he called them into action after the supposed millennium, but perhaps that was simply a side effect of old age.
“I snuck in extra fries for you. Please make sure to get some rest, and don’t forget to visit us again.” The employee beamed. Sweet girl. He’d have to be extra grateful the next time he was in during one of her shifts.
Majima saw himself out with a waggle of his fingers. Guess it was time to head home. It stung to end his prowl so early in the evening, but in the best interest of his health (a foreign concern) and getting to the bottom of his rapidly fluctuating bodily state, it was wise to tuck it in for the night.
Not keen on provoking unwanted attention in his current state, he took the backroads to his apartment, ducking into shadowed alleyways and cramming himself into cat-passages to get back encounter-free. There was No need to let any undesirables get the jump on him considering his current hit-accuracy rate. The mantra of just home… almost home… held him steady enough to make it to the staircase outside of the building, but the first few steps caused the vertigo to double and he wobbled backwards a bit. Majima teetered, white-knuckling the railing as he took the rest of the stairs. A cracked head was only a hot look on a zombie.
He swung the door to his apartment open, kicked his shoes off and plopped his ass on the floor in front of the entryway. While he’d have time to inventory his ailments later, the first thing on the agenda was eating. Majima tore the bag open, targeting a couple scattered fries as his first victims. The burger did not last long either. He ate his meal like an animal, like he was possessed. Like he was crunching into bone, sucking out marrow.
The ultimate reality is that burgers are boneless, though, and all he managed to do with his feverish appetite was make a mess of sauce all over his chest and gloves. He used the leftover fries to collect what he could, and then his fingers and tongue when he ran out of the former. He spent who knows how long sucking on his fingers in the foyer, cleaning off his bare chest with spit. It reeked of some unconscious and unaddressed arousal, but when his original task returned to the forefront of his mind he was quick to get on his feet, wobbly.
Majima unbuttoned his pants as he staggered to the bathroom, rolled his shoulders out of his jacket like he was shedding and let it fall to the floor without any concern for potential wrinkles. He had plenty more to wear, after all.
He wasn’t stuffy, but his head felt full of cotton and everything looked kind of soft and far away with the same type of sensory blur he’d attribute to a seasonal fever. Majima pawed around in his medicine cabinet, knocking loose bottles into the sink basin without a care. Finding what he was looking for, finally, he popped the raw edge of the thermometer into his mouth and waited for a result.
God, he looked like shit. A little sweaty, and skin with the luster of the underbelly of a dead fish. Beneath his eye and the hollow of the other were two rings, much darker than usual. His facial hair was starting to grow out longer than he liked as well, and he scratched aimlessly at the stubbly shadow of his jaw until the area became an irritated pink, almost angry enough to draw blood.
Hm.
“Not lookin’ too hot, stud.”
Excuse me?
He blinked once, and then once more. The thermometer dropped from his lips and into the sink with a clatter. Temperature forgotten, Majima dragged a hand over his face and... watched his tired reflection stay exactly the same, no trace of his hand in the mirror. Just wasn’t his day, was it?
Well, the quicker he could wriggle out of his clothes, the quicker he could get to the bottom of ignoring the way even his damn reflection wasn’t following directions, so he peeled off his gloves and tossed them among the mess in the sink. His pants followed closely, slung over the closed lid of the toilet with one leg inside-out.
The bedroom was dark, but cleaner than he had been anticipating. The wide bed in the back was unmade but devoid of any personal clutter or loose clothing, and the floor was more or less visible. Majima could feel the rumpled sheets calling for him, but despite looking and feeling thrice-run over it still felt like a waste to sleep the rest of the afternoon away.
Hmm… He couldn’t possibly go outside in this condition with full confidence that someone wouldn't try to get the jump on him, but what else could he do?
Oh. There was always the more important part of his ‘hobby’. His personal mission. The planning. When possible, he liked to leave the execution of the planning to Nishida, but costumes and brainstorming were all Majima Goro territory. He looked at the pile of unopened parcels near the closet—about 8 to 10 plastic mailers, likely filled with outfits he bought online and promptly forgot about, and a handful of shopping bags marked with nondescript boutique names. If there were any better time to see what was hot and what was not, now would be it.
Making quick work of the packaging, Majima got down to business. Clothes: on the bed, plastics: on the floor to sort and toss later. He’d bought all sorts of shit, more than he remembers ever looking at. Costumes with complicated systems of straps and buckles, skimpy dresses, ill-fitting imitations of actual uniforms, and a couple of pieces that were far too revealing to wear comfortably—even for his lax standards regarding public decency.
After wriggling his way out of a harness that nearly choked him to death, Majima found himself in a maid’s dress. The chastity of the outfit was a change of pace, both from some of the previous ensembles as well as his daily wear. When was the last time he’d covered up this much...? Officer Majima, maybe.
That had been a good one. Getting the opportunity to give Kiryu a good pat-down over his clothes. Check out his muscles, definitely focusing on searching for contraband and not committing to memory the tightest glutes he’s had his hands on in years-
Anyway. At least the bodice exposed some of his chest—a tit-window in the shape of a cat’s head that catches the edges of his tattoos—and wasn’t covered up by the apron knotted tightly around his waist. On the surface, the cut-out was the only risque part of the piece. The dress had long, layered sleeves dissected by frilly bands around the elbow, multiple petticoats, and a skirt that fell right to the knee, obscuring the lacy line of his semi-sheer white stockings.
He’d gotten twisted up in all the layers and the apron and the bow, but the outcome was really worth all hassle. Majima gathered the skirt in his palms and pulled it up, up, up, until his bare thighs and the side strings of the hot pink thong were visible in the mirror. There we go.
The bloomers would’ve been more authentic, but he was glad he had gone with his gut. This was just so much sexier. The t-back held intrigue, a hint of suggestion. It was even worth enduring the scratchiness of the petticoat’s tulle on his ass and the front of his thighs. Anything for the image.
He still wasn’t looking too much better in the face department, but he still waffled for a moment between his regular leather patch and the softer, medical cotton one that he’s switched to for now. The angry red mark slashed across his forehead from the tight band of his usual patch distracted from the final verdict, so he went back to the dress. Majima gave it a little twirl in the mirror, satisfied with both volume and mobility after taking a few steps to the side, and almost forgot how under the weather he’d been just from admiring how much of a sexy motherfucker he was. How did he get this hot, anyway?
He hoped this one would be a hit with Kiryu. The setting was still a little foggy, but imagining the marginal widening of his eyes, that hint of surprise before his face hardened back into… whatever you’d call the usual look on his face. Not disappointment or even disgust or anger, but the fresh wick of a fuse waiting to be lit. that searing gaze that always got Majima itching for a fight, for a fist (or something else) in his gut.
He wondered what Kiryu would say. If he even had words for the situation or would turn himself away, try to exit the scene and act like he saw nothing. That part of Kiryu was almost-bashful, cute. Made Majima want to spit on the concrete, taunt Kiryu until he was the one being cornered instead.
Majima felt that familiar stir in his gut, and exhaled heavily from his nose. Not the time to be getting all excited, Majima Goro. He turned from the mirror to start tidying up, sorting the strewn outfits into ‘keep’ and ‘discard’ piles to, like the packaging, deal with later.
He’s just about finished when something like a gust of air flipped the back of his skirts up. Did he leave the window open? Was it drafty in here? Uneasy thoughts settled over his skin, similar to the discomfort he felt in the bathroom earlier, and a wave of forgotten nausea swept over him once more.
Maybe that was a sign that he should wrap it up soon and resign to the bed for the evening. He did enough, it was fine.
“Hmm…” It was fine, wasn’t it? Why was he humming?
“Yeah… nah. Outfit's not a bad choice but what's the build up lookin' like?”
“Haw?”
“I'm sayin’, how are ya gonna bag a fight in that get-up with no plan? Time and a place for that kinda 'fit.”
It was a valid point, but his brain was getting kind of mouthy. Not to mention, a lot louder than he's used to. Majima whirled back around, a touch more dramatic than usual just to catch the billow of his skirts, and was bewildered to see his reflection already facing him.
He saw the corners of its mouth turned downwards in an almost-pitiful expression, and couldn’t help but glower back until the stress in his face matched the way he imagined it to look like. The hell…
Majima shook his head, watched the reflection follow along as usual, and then cycled through a few basic expressions. Pulled the skin of his cheeks away from the bone and watched them fall back into place the same time he let go. He fussed with his skin until the mirror stopped copying him, falling out of sync with a disgust to its features that he’d never seen directed towards himself before.
“Ya done?” He heard himself ask, and wondered how it could sound so loud without his own mouth moving.
"Who the hell are ya?"
“Don't ask questions ya know the answer to,” was all he got, and his reflection sauntered up to the edge of the glass to match the roll of intimidation in its tone, even as Majima himself took a step back. The image looked barely contained, the ruffled edges of its skirt bunching against the boundary of the mirror. It gave the impression of ‘I can't leave (yet), but it won't take much to let me out,’ and Majima wasn’t sure what would happen if it got loose.
“Why are ya botherin’ me right now, then?”
It didn’t respond, simply looking down its nose at him, and then clicked its tongue. It didn’t even have to say anything for Majima to know that it was thinking poorly of him. If it really had a mind of its own to do so.
“Oh, fuck you.” Majima scoffed and averted his gaze. There was something about being looked down on by himself that cut deeper than the eye of a stranger, and it was making him itch for his bat.
“You could.”
“I could what?” He mutters to no one in particular. Hell, the ground would receive his message faster than he’d admit to fussing at himself in the mirror.
“Fuck me. Always getting all dolled up for lover boy Kiryu, but what’s so wrong with a little self care?”
“I-” His head shot up, but he didn’t have anything to say to that.
It must’ve shown on his face, because the mirror gestured to him, arms open as if requesting an embrace. “C’mere. I’ll show you how.”
***
It felt real. Almost.
Majima was so hot, but it was like there were ice-cold hands all over him. Fingers in the cutout on his chest, hands snaking up the nylon of his stockings. The tongue in his mouth was his but it wasn’t—glass-smooth and squeaky when it hit his teeth. His breathing sounded twice amplified in his ears, and then there was another cold hand on his cheek, one on his cock, tugging rough strokes in time with his own hand.
“Ah, ah,” he whined, and couldn’t stop whining. Like the noise was a string being tugged from his throat. He sounded pathetic, feverish, but it felt so good to be close to someone like this. His reflection continued to whisper in his ear, called him all sorts of names and told him all sorts of things that had him leaking hard down his fingers.
His knees ached from resting on them for so long, legs beneath almost numb, but he was almost there. So close, just a little more—
All the build-up crumbled into dust as soon as Kiryu damn near busted the door down, “Nii-san, are you alri-” hot on his tongue.
“This ain’t, uh… Actually, it might be what it looks like, but come here often, Kiryu-chan?” Under better circumstances, Majima might have come up with something more intelligent to say, but he was simply working with what he had at the moment. Anything to draw away from the sloppy sight of himself pressed against the mirror, smearing precum and saliva across the glass like he didn’t have any sense in his head.
He might not.
This wasn’t how he had imagined Kiryu seeing the maid dress for the first time, but who would Majima Goro be if not a man that tried to take this opportunity in stride? By tucking himself back into the small undergarments the best he could.
“Do you need help?” Kiryu asked eyes following Majima’s hand, and Majima hadn’t anticipated that either, but dialogue was something he could work with.
“No?”
“Ok,” Kiryu appeared to be in thought (or as close to thought as he could get) for a moment, lips pursed. “Do you want help?”
Things continued to not go as anticipated.
After an agonizing stretch of silence, not more motion than wavering breath, Majima narrowed his eyes. He flopped onto his ass with something between a defeated huff and a laugh. A huff of a laugh, even. His skirts were ruffled, knees open.
“Y’know what? Fuck it, sure.” He sighed, tilting his head back to catch Kiryu’s eye. Well, really to catch the way Kiryu was looking under his skirt through the mirror. “See somethin’ ya like?” He asked, even though he knew the answer, mouth splitting open on that shark grin that always got Kiryu to dust pink across his nose. Almost-angry, but also something more. Definitely caught in the trap.
“Lots, actually.” and Majima didn’t want to take back his previous thought, but perhaps Kiryu had laid a trap of his own. “Can I get a closer look…?” Kiryu started, dropping to his knees slow and deliberate. Like Majima was a wild animal, one that might have spooked if he approached any faster.
Despite the timid approach, Kiryu knew exactly what to do as soon as he had his hands on Majima. He leaned in.
As soon as their lips met, Majima let his eye roll shut, vision of his room replaced with electricity shooting across the dark red space of his eyelid. He focused on Kiryu’s touch: a large palm on his waist. Not gripping but just waiting, his other hand creeping towards the clean-cut line of hair at his nape.
Beneath his eye he saw their breath, their skin. They were just barely tacky with sweat and the activated natural scent from proximity, and Kiryu smelled warm and smoky—with the faint, inescapable reek of sewage that came with roaming Kamurocho all day. Majima was sure he wasn’t much better himself, and could taste the onion from his shitty greasy burger in the back of his own throat when he parted his lips to let Kiryu have access to the depth of his mouth.
The rustling of all of Majima’s layers as Kiryu started to palm his waist was sharp in his ears, and Majima surged forward to exert a little more control over the situation. He shifted in Kiryu’s grip, hands wandering the entire time it took to get settled in his lap. He mapped with his palms, put together the pieces in his head, and with the expanse of real, hot flesh at his disposal, Majima’s imagined lover—the lustful figure in the mirror—was far in the past.
Kiryu’s hands found their way under the mountains of fabric, grabbing his bare ass and pulling Majima forward in his lap. Majima's fingers skirted over Kiryu’s nape, dipped down the collar of his shirt.
“Nii-san, you,”
“Yeah?”
But Kiryu never finished. Instead, he took his cock out and asked “can I?” and all Majima could do was claw around for his lube. Hated that he had to leave Kiryu’s lap to do it, but some sacrifices are worth making.
“Bed’s more comfortable, Kiryu-chan,” Majima beckoned from where he’d dipped into the mattress, and it only took mere moments of Kiryu sitting on the floor with his dick loose for him to get the memo and make his way over. Majima tossed Kiryu the bottle and he got to work, flipping Majima onto his stomach and working a couple fingers into him with a level of determination only the horniest managed to achieve.
With greasy fingers, Kiryu pulled the hot pink thong to the side like a jockstrap, holding it out of the way of his final destination.
The mirror was alarmingly quiet at this time, not that Majima had been doing more than focusing on Kiryu’s thick fingers and the best way to breathe through the thread count of his sheets.
After sliding in, Kiryu didn’t do much more than huff breath, stroke the small of Majima’s back with his dry hand, and sometimes murmur praise under his breath as Majima wriggled beneath him. The weight of his body was addicting pressure, and Majima felt like he was melting into the bed. The perfect remedy for his shitshow of a day. Like this it was easy to dismiss earlier as a bad dream, but of course good things didn’t want to last forever for him either.
The mirror hummed, “Just like that. Feel good?” and Majima groaned into the sheets, spreading his legs a little wider in spite of how irked he felt.
“Work your hips back,” it requested, and Majima decided to speak over it.
“How do ya like the ‘fit, Kiryu-chan?” It was hard to talk, getting railed face down, but he managed to turn his head far enough to get the words out between panting breaths. “Want me to say ‘welcome home, Master’ when you come?”
He couldn’t see it, but Majima could feel the weight of Kiryu’s frown. He probably wanted to smack him in the head, but the ass seemed to suffice. Kiryu’s palm came down in a light open-handed tap that got him an overplayed yelp in return.
“So that’s a yes?”
“Absolutely not.”
“C’monn,” Majima whined. “Y’gotta get in the spirit at least a little bit, Master.”
“I can always go home right now.”
“Got an even better idea. You could fuck me facing the mirror. Real kinky, right? See how good yer knockin’ me up.” And if he’s just regurgitating something his reflection has been trying to tell him beneath this entire exchange, who was Kiryu to know?
Somehow, Kiryu acquiesced to the vulgar request without comment, and shifted them both so Majima could see himself in the mirror again. His reflection leered at them both, gaze filthy, and Majima shuddered beneath Kiryu’s palms.
“Look at me,” it hissed, arresting his gaze, and he couldn’t blink, couldn’t turn his head away when he tried. He saw himself where he should’ve been, and then his reflection was getting up, crawling out of Kiryu’s lap and slinging itself across the width of his shoulders. The movement freed up the gap of space where Majima used to be, where he still was, and left him with the awful view of Kiryu’s dick fucking into nothing but air. It was like something out of a dirty comic, x-ray view of Kiryu being squeezed by something Majima couldn’t see, clothes indented from the contour of a body that just… wasn’t there anymore.
The contour in question moaned, low, stroking its hands through Kiryu’s hair and biting at his ear, his neck. Aside from a shiver, Kiryu made no indication of acknowledging Majima’s reflection as anything abnormal. His eyes were wrenched shut in the woes of pleasure, and was rightfully more focused on getting his rocks off than having a minor crisis like Majima was.
However, the sights in all of their absurdity were enough to quickly bring Majima over the edge. He tensed up in Kiryu’s arms, spilling thick all over the fabric of his skirts before falling limp. It was easy to let Kiryu use him to his own end after this, and Kiryu was happy to take. He followed behind minutes after, pulling out to release in his sticky palm, and Majima was surprised how relieved he was to see it. So much clean-up effort spared.
“Oh, he’s gone.” The illusion dissipated post-orgasm, gone by the time Majima had the strength to prop himself up in bed again, and he’s just left with… himself. One eye looking back at him in the exact place he would expect.
“Who’s gone?” Kiryu asked, bleary, and pawed at Majima to bring him back down into the covers. So needy.
“Don’t worry about it.” Majima waved off the concern with a hand, and it was a bit of advice he was willing to take himself, falling right back into Kiryu’s embrace.